Inevitable
by TheTBone
Summary: "Quinn has known Rachel long enough to know that, without her meds, she is a car without any brakes. And while even Quinn can't stop her, she can at the very least steer her away from oncoming traffic." Alternate scene for 2x06. Instead of Rachel and Quinn having a conversation with Chet and Coleman in the control room, the two talk in Quinn's office.


Quinn King whips her head towards the door as soon as she hears it open. "Finally, you're back," she says, her voice seeping with annoyance and tinged with relief. She jumps out of her seat, forgetting all about Tiffany and Darius the instant she spies Rachel. "Rachel, let's go talk in my office."

It's not a question. It's never a question with Quinn. But while her words leave no room for argument, there's a certain softness to it—one she scarcely uses with Rachel and never uses with anyone else.

"Let's all talk," Coleman suggests.

"Let's not," Quinn shoots back, fixing him with a look that could make flowers wilt and babies cry instantaneously. As if on cue they both shift their attention to Rachel, who immediately locks eyes with Quinn.

Gone is the venom from earlier on the phone, her tendency towards cowardliness surfacing. Yelling at Quinn when there are thousands of miles between them or going to Gary behind her back is one thing, but betraying her to her face is a completely different story. She finds it nearly impossible to deny Quinn anything while looking in her eyes.

"Fine," Rachel says, attempting to sound nonchalant, though her expression betrays her. It's hard to keep anything from someone who knows all of your ticks: every nail-biting, backed-into-a-corner, talking-like-you're-going-to-change-the-world one of them.

"Do you want me to come?" Coleman asks, placing a hand on her back. She's sure it's meant to be reassuring, but the fact that the touch is too careful, that the hand is too large does anything but make her feel better.

"I'll be fine," she says, trying to keep the agitation out of her voice. She doesn't want him right now, and perhaps she never did, but god knows she's too stubborn to let Quinn figure that out.

She takes a step forward for the dual purpose of shrugging him off and showing Quinn she's unafraid.

"Are you sure?" Coleman frowns, his hand falling to his side in disappointment. Rachel grits her teeth, but before she can open her mouth, Quinn answers for her.

"Yes, she's sure, what part of that did you not get?" she says will a roll of her eyes.

"Well?" Rachel asks, tone laced with irritation. She turns and walks out the door with purpose, not waiting for Quinn. It's to get away from Coleman and prepare herself to be alone with the other woman, but she hopes it comes off as a power move.

"Goldberg, wait up," Quinn says, strutting to the office as fast as her high heels will allow. "Hey, slow down," she says again, as the other girl shows no sign of letting up. "Rachel!" she barks, grabbing her arm this time.

"Damn it, Quinn!" Rachel screams, retracting from her grip as if Quinn's hand was a hot stove.

Quinn is about to yell back—nobody, not even Rachel, talks to her like that and gets away with it—but she stops herself. Rachel is hissing in pain, clutching her forearm to her chest.

"What-" she begins to ask. But then it clicks. Chet said Jeremy left bruises all up and down her arms. "Shit," she mutters, realizing what she'd just done. In the ten years she's been producing girls, her primary tasks having been to make them weep and cause them emotional distress, she's never felt more like an asshole.

Quinn sighs. "Come on," she says more gently, opening the office door.

Rachel doesn't budge. "I'm not going in there," she says, still cradling her arm.

"Rachel, please," Quinn says, tossing her head back in exasperation.

"No," Rachel says, gaining more confidence, feeding off of Quinn's pleads.

"This is getting old. You're acting like you're six," Quinn crosses her arms an raises an eyebrow, immediately and effortlessly taking back the power. She can cut Rachel down just as quickly as she can build her up. She has a million different manipulation techniques up her sleeve. Being ruthless backfired? Fine, she could suck it up and be sweet for the cause of the greater good. That kindness makes the other person feel like a hot shot? Whatever, she'd just make them feel stupid, convince them they're embarrassing themselves by acting like a petulant child. "Just get inside."

"What, so you can make everything worse?"

"I'm trying to help you, Rachel."

"Oh, that's funny," Rachel laughs cynically. She can feel it happening again. Everything bubbling up inside her, just like earlier that day with Darius. The blood rushes through her veins, her heart beats fast and loud inside her chest. The thing is, no matter how many times it happens, she doesn't still know how to stop everything from boiling over. "Just like you were trying to help me when you sabotaged my relationship with Adam? Or when you gave the show to me just to take it back? Or when you showed up to the gala and humiliated Coleman and me?"

"You need to calm down," Quinn says evenly.

"You know, Jay told me that you're like an abusive husband, and maybe he's right. You don't care about me, you just want to control me and use me because you're sad and pathetic and alone," Rachel continues to rant loudly.

Quinn has known Rachel long enough to know that, without her meds, she is a car without any brakes. And while even Quinn can't stop her, she can at the very least steer her away from oncoming traffic. Rachel might have been worth five crashed Ferraris, but that didn't mean Quinn was going to watch her drive them into a tree.

She places a hand on Rachel's back. Unlike Coleman's, it feels sure of itself, feels like it belongs there _._ Quinn leans in, whispering harshly in Rachel's ear. "You cannot make a scene out here," she says through gritted teeth. "You know appearances are everything. We have to present a united front to the contestants or producing them will be ten times harder. Are you really going to let your own petty feelings stand in the way of making television history?" she asks, not waiting for an answer. "Now get inside."

Rachel takes a deep breath, Quinn's words and authority flipping a switch inside of her. She reluctantly steps into the office, the confinement of the space chipping away at her tough exterior.

Quinn shuts the door, staring at Rachel. "What? That's all you got?" she asks recrossing her arms. "I thought we were just getting started, Goldberg. You were putting on quite the show out there."

Rachel looks away, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. For every high—every making Chantal cry over a walkie and disastrous Beth Ann pregnancy reveal—there was also a low. Lows that dipped straight into her core, stripping everything away and leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

"Sit down," Quinn orders, eyebrow raising into its signature, arrogant arch. Rachel does as she's told, sinking into the couch and staring up at Quinn expectantly.

Quinn leans against her desk, reveling in the fact that she has Rachel's full attention. The girl is anticipating her every move, about to hang on every word, and she intentionally draws out the moments before opening her mouth just to see her squirm a bit.

"I was helping with Adam," she starts. "I was saving you from making a choice that would have led to a drunk, royal desertion on some island with the paparazzi snapping pictures of your left tit. I took the show back so we wouldn't lose it. So we could beat Chet and come out on top and mold it into what _we_ wanted it to be. I interrupted you at the gala because, not only were you making an idiot out of yourself, I was going to win us a network that we could do whatever the hell we wanted with. As for Jay's little 'abusive husband' comment? Well, I'm not the one who beat the crap out of you in your trailer. That was the guy you chose over _me_ last year. But I know that you already knew all of that, so now that we have all the bullshit excuses out of the way, why don't we talk about what actually matters."

Rachel looks at a ceiling, conjuring up more ammunition. God knows there is plenty of it. She opens her mouth, about to launch another attack.

"Look at me," Quinn cuts her off before she can go on another rampage. When Rachel flashes her a confused look, she shrugs. "If you're going to talk shit I want you to do it to my face. You know, exactly what you _didn't_ have the balls to do when you had your little powwow with Gary."

Rachel's mouth clamps shut. Quinn has called her bluff, and she knows it's over. Sure, she could go on another tirade, stall for more time, but what we be the point? Quinn is inevitable. Which leaves her with…what? Without her anger, her crutch, what does she have? Shame. Humiliation. Her scattered, unfixable mind.

"Spit it out, Goldberg," Quinn snaps. "I can handle it."

Rachel diverts her eyes again, though this time for a different purpose. "I don't know what to say," she admits, her voice cracking.

Quinn sighs. She should've known Rachel wasn't going to make this easy on her. She walks behind her desk, opening a drawer.

"Take your shirt off," she says nonchalantly, not bothering to turn around.

"What?" Rachel asks, sitting up straighter, eyes widened in confusion.

Quinn rolls her eyes, stifling a laugh. She should be so lucky. "Don't be a prude, Goldie. We've shared a bed," she tosses over her shoulder, continuing to rummage through the drawer. "Plus, I'm not trying to get in your pants. Change into this," she says, lobbing an undershirt in her direction.

She always keeps a change of clothes in her office ever since The Infamous Coffee Spill of 2010. Needless to say that was that intern's last day. A couple years later, Jay had mentioned spotting the little twerp working at a Starbucks, ironically enough.

"Why?" Rachel asks, although she is already removing her own shirt in favor of Quinn's.

Quinn rubs her temples, the standard response when people question her. "Because," she says, reaching into her mini freezer and grabbing a few pieces of ice usually reserved for her booze, "you should get ice on that," she motions to her arm. "I'm assuming you didn't put any on yesterday."

"You're not supposed to ice bruises after 24 hours," Rachel informs her.

"You're a doctor now?" Quinn squints at her, ice melting in her palm.

"I've had my fair share of rough boyfriends," she says too casually for Quinn's liking. "After 24 hours you're supposed to switch to heat."

Quinn throws the ice back in the cooler, yanking her walkie out of her pocket.

"Madison," she barks. "Get me Wagerstein's heating pad."

"Okay," Madison replies quickly, eager to please Quinn. Which, funnily enough, is one of the (many) reasons Quinn hates her.

Quinn hears whispering on the other line, Madison clearly still learning to master the simple "on" and "off" buttons. She certainly isn't the sharpest tool in the drawer, but she isn't reluctant about cutting someone. Stupidity they could work with—idiocy could be trained—but a silent conscience was something you had to be born with.

"Have the pigtails cut off the circulation to your brain?" Quinn snips, tapping her foot. "Ask Wagerstein for her heating pad."

"I did," Madison replies, "but, um, she's kind of using it? She says she has cramps," she says, whispering the last part.

"Good god, that old hag hasn't gone through menopause yet? Look, I don't care, just get it in here," she demands, being met with silence. "What?" she asks impatiently.

"I just-I don't think that would be very nice," Madison explains. "I mean it is _hers_ and I-"

"I don't care if that heating pad is the only thing keeping your terminally ill puppy alive, if it's not in here in the next two minutes you're fired."

"But-"

Quinn rips the batteries out of the walkie before Madison can get another word out.

"You could've just used a warm washcloth," Rachel observes, tugging on the bottom of the Quinn's tank top.

"That's a $10,000 sofa, you think I'm going to let liquid near it? Please," Quinn scoffs.

"Since when do you have a $10,000 couch?" Rachel wrinkles her nose and looks down to see that the furniture is in fact new.

"Since I got a seven-figure deal," Quinn says cynically. Sure, she still has the money, but since then they'd taken away something far more important from her: power.

Rachel fixes Quinn with an odd look.

"What?" Quinn asks defensively. "Everybody needs a splurge once in awhile." She looks out the window, spying Madison frantically running towards the office, stupid double braids whipping behind her.

Quinn meets her at the door, opening it just a crack, shielding Rachel from onlookers. Word travelled fast on sets, and while she assumed most people already knew about a confrontation between Rachel and Jeremy by now, she didn't need them spreading the details. While she wasn't there to protect Rachel from the beating, she could at least protect the sliver of privacy and dignity she still had.

She grabs the heating pad from Madison, slamming the door in her face before she can ask any inane questions. "Here, put this on your arm," Quinn orders, passing it off to Rachel.

Rachel complies, wincing slightly as the fabric comes into contact with her tender skin.

Quinn places her hands on her hips, seriously considering tracking down Jeremy again and making good on her earlier threat of removing his testicles once and for all. She decides against it, the fact that Rachel looks so helpless just barely winning out. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Rachel replies quickly.

"Do you want to drink about it?"

Rachel shrugs and Quinn walks over to her liquor cabinet, pouring two glasses of whisky. She hands one to Rachel before taking a seat in the chair across from her. The two sip from their glasses, engulfed in an awkward silence for a moment.

After a beat, Quinn speaks. "You know there's no excuse for what Jeremy did to you, right?"

"Oh my god, are you seriously giving me the talk right now?" Rachel laughs dryly.

"Just humor me."

"Quinn, I said I didn't want to talk about it," Rachel reminds her, throwing back the rest of her drink.

"I don't care," Quinn says firmly. "Answer the question."

Rachel rolls her eyes, already feeling the effects of the alcohol. "Yes," she says to Quinn, "obviously."

But it's a cover-up, and Quinn knows it. She narrows her eyes. "Are you lying to me? Don't even think about lying to me."

Rachel rubs her neck. Damn her. Damn her for always making her confront things she doesn't want to. "I pushed him first," she explains.

Quinn furrows her eyebrows, "Um, you're also like 100 pounds and he's a foot taller than you, Rachel."

"He still had the right to fight back."

"Not like that he didn't," Quinn shakes her head. "It's not your fault, okay?" she says. "It's not your fault that he's a small-dicked preteen stuck in the body of a homeless lumberjack who gets off on hurting women."

Rachel licks her lips. "I took pictures. After he hit me? I got evidence."

"Rachel," Quinn says, more gentle, more apologetic, than Rachel had ever heard her be. You can't-"

"Don't worry," Rachel assures her. "I already deleted them. Do you know how much this sucks, though? If what he did was out of line-"

"It was."

"-now I just, what? Have to go on as normal? Pretend like nothing ever happened when I could be pressing charges?"

"I know," Quinn agrees sympathetically. "It's fucked up. But both of us going to jail for murder or sexual harassment or any of the other illegal shit we've pulled because Jeremy wants to cover his own sorry ass would be even more fucked up."

Rachel bites her nail, staring at the wall. Quinn hates it when she does that—shuts down as a defense mechanism. She only wants that dead look in her eyes to appear when she's producing.

Quinn takes a deep breath and stands up, knowing that when Rachel gets like this, conversation is fruitless. "You're sleeping here tonight," she says.

"Quinn-"

"It wasn't a question." Quinn walks over to the other chair, nabbing a few decorative pillows and flinging them onto the couch. She walks back over to the drawer, sifting through its contents until she gets to the very bottom. She retrieves an old, oversized NYU sweatshirt. It hadn't been worn in months—Quinn opting for sleeker, more stylish jackets ever since her promotion—but it had always been her favorite. "I don't have any blankets, but this should keep you warm enough," she says, handing it to Rachel.

Rachel hesitates. "I'd rather sleep in my own room tonight. I think it would be best."

Quinn laughs. "Right, like your little six-by-six closet is more comfortable than this room."

"I just think it would be better to face it right away," Rachel says softly. "I'm going to have to go back eventually." She doesn't tell Quinn that she almost threw up when she went back in there to grab her wallet that day. That she's worried she'll have nightmares tonight. That knowing Quinn is only a few feet away, tucked in her office, might be the only way she'll survive the hell of being back in her trailer—back at the crime scene—that first night.

"You can stay here as long as you want," Quinn says flippantly, as if what she just offered isn't completely out of character. As if she hadn't just willingly invited someone to share her sacred, personal space without any strings attached and void of any personal gain.

Rachel purses her lips. She should say no, she knows that. Because despite Quinn's offer, she _will_ have to go back eventually, and putting things off will only make it harder. She should say no, but she doesn't, slipping on Quinn's sweatshirt and arranging the pillows against the arm of the couch.

Rachel sees Quinn grab her bag out of the corner of her eye. "Are you leaving?" she asks, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

"No, I'm going to hang here and go over these numbers again," she says, taking out a binder from her bag, cracking open an impossibly large stack of papers and settling into a chair across from Rachel.

"You don't have to stay with me," Rachel says.

"I'm not staying here for _you_ ," Quinn assures her. "My neighbors are dog-sitting this insufferable yappy mutt this week. It doesn't allow me to concentrate."

"Hm," Rachel nods, closing her eyes and snuggling into the pillows.

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence: Rachel on the verge of dozing off, Quinn analyzing budgets. It all feels very domestic, so unlike the two of them, yet somehow it feels right.

Quinn takes a break from crunching numbers to peer up at Rachel. "If you drool on that couch, I'll kill you," she threatens.

Later that night, Quinn will brush a stray hair from Rachel's forehead on the way to turn the office lights out. She will tell herself that she's too tired to drive, that it's too late to go home, that the second she gets there she'll just have to turn around and come back so really, what's the point?

She'll fall asleep in the chair to the rhythm of the other girl's breathing and stay there until morning, slipping out right before Rachel awakens.


End file.
